Five Senses
by Linndechir
Summary: Hellstrom is a tease. Landa suffers. slash, top!Hellstrom, sub!Landa
1. Part one: See

Author's note: What Hellstrom is doing in this scene is blatantly stolen from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Mhmm, Garak and Hellstrom should meet. I don't think they'd get along, but they'd mindfuck each other to no end.

* * *

**Part one: See**

Hans Landa's eyes had been fixed on the interrogation room for almost an hour now. He was standing in the observation room next door, separated by a glass wall that allowed him to see what was going on without being seen.

The scene that fascinated him so much seemed to be fairly normal. A bleak interrogation room, rather dark except for a cold lamp hanging from the ceiling over the small table, a shivering young man in a torn, dirty suit, sitting opposite an equally young Gestapo officer in a black SS-uniform. An interrogation scene like many others that happened these days, an officer squeezing information out of a suspected regime opponent.

Nothing of particular interest for someone of Landa's rank, had it not been for the identity of the interrogator - _Sturmbannführer_ Dieter Hellstrom. His obvious intelligence and shrewdness, together with his very impressive record and reputation, had piqued Landa's interest, and after one of Hellstrom's superiors had told him that the major could make a mute man talk, Landa had been quite curious to see him at work.

For an hour Hellstrom had simply been staring at the young man, who had tried to escape his gaze a few times, but had found himself drawn in again like a moth to the flame. Hellstrom blinked rarely, slowly, and when he did it didn't seem to break the power of his gaze. His whole body seemed immobile, except for the occasional shifting to make himself more comfortable; his hands were folded on the table.

After asking the prisoner, at the very beginning, if he would simply answer the questions they had - which the man had refused - Hellstrom hadn't said a word. He had just stared at him in complete silence, with the patience of a hawk, gliding in the skies and waiting for the right moment to bear down on his victim.

To Hans Landa's eyes, the sight was just as beautiful to behold as a hawk's flight. Even from a distance he could see the utter control in Hellstrom's body - even his occasional shifting was carefully calculated, same as the rare movements of his long fingers, tapping on the table as if he had become impatient, while his face remained the same cold mask as before, conveying the absolute certainty that he would win this game, even if he had to sit here for the next three days.

And the prisoner, who had held his head so high when he had been brought in, had all too soon started to shiver, his initial discomfort quickly turning into fear. It was impressive - the longer he looked into Hellstrom's eyes, incapable of averting his gaze, the weaker he seemed to get.

Hellstrom hadn't even moved to light a cigarette, and Landa knew how much self-control this had to cost a chain-smoker like him. He kept watching, with the same fascination with which he would watch a cat toy with a mouse, seeing how the prisoner was slowly worn down, his imagination no doubt painting vivid images of all the things a man with such eyes as Hellstrom's would do to him. And Landa, more than anyone else, could appreciate the art and the skill behind this gaze. Other interrogators would have started physical torture by now, but Hellstrom knew that letting the victim _imagine_ the pain that awaited him was much more frightening.

Landa had long stopped checking his watch when the prisoner suddenly sobbed loudly, tears spilling over his face, and whimpered a name.

Finally, for the first time since he had entered the interrogation room, Hellstrom smiled, a smile that showed too many teeth, a shark's smile. His fingers unfolded and quickly picked up his pen, noting the name in a tiny, absurdly regular handwriting. His eyes moved up again, from the paper to the prisoner, and the first name of an accomplice was soon followed by more names, then even a full confession.

Landa watched Hellstrom's hand as avidly, almost greedily, as he had stared at his eyes before. Two pages were filled before Hellstrom nodded in satisfaction and made a quick sign to the two waiting SS-men. While the still weeping prisoner was being dragged out of the room, Hellstrom finally pulled out his cigarette case.

Landa almost caught himself moaning when a cigarette was put between slightly parted lips, drawn in by the elegance of these long fingers when they lit the cigarette, their caresses on the white paper after he had taken the first drag. The touch of his lips and hands on the cigarette was like a lover's, tender and yet greedy and impatient, and to his own shock Landa felt intense arousal stir in his groin, earlier intellectual fascination turning into mere physical desire. And just as Hellstrom's eyes had made the prisoner imagine the things he would have to endure if he stayed silent, his hands made Landa imagine how they would feel on his body, caressing him, holding him down, teasing him …

Hellstrom's skin was ghostly pale against the black uniform, slender wrists barely visible under the long sleeves. Landa wanted to push those sleeves up a little, kiss the fragile looking wrists, lick over his blue veins, feel the strong pulse under his hot skin.

Suddenly it occurred to him how awkward it would be to be found here, staring at Hellstrom, his breathing accelerated, his face probably flushed. He quickly straightened up and turned to leave, but in the same moment Hellstrom looked up. Even through the glass their eyes met, and although Landa knew that Hellstrom couldn't possibly see him, he felt as if his eyes were seeing right through him.

Hellstrom took a last drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out slowly. An almost dirty smirk graced his pale face for a second, but it was gone so quickly that Landa wondered if he had only imagined it.

Barely a second later Hellstrom had turned his attention back to his notes, calmly sorting through the papers and making a few annotations.

Landa almost stumbled when he hurried out of the room.


	2. Part two: Hear

Author's note: This isn't really Landa/Hellstrom, it's Beethoven/Hellstrom with Landa watching. Metaphorically, of course. Warning for shameless music geekery. I couldn't decide which Beethoven sonata I'd let Hellstrom play; I went for the Appassionata because it's maybe the one people are most likely to know. If you don't, listen to it RIGHT NOW. And to all his other piano sonatas.

* * *

**Part two: Hear  
**

Even Paris came to silence sometimes. It was long past midnight, and the expensive restaurant was almost empty, with the exception of a few lingering guests, most of them German officers who had a free day coming up, often accompanied by young French women. The conversations were muted and calm, the waiters had hardly anything to do and would have closed if they had dared to tell the officers to leave. It was pleasantly quiet, but not too silent. The pianist who had provided the background music for the evening had already left an hour ago, but the grand piano - a glorious Bösendorfer, directly imported from Vienna - was not yet to be deserted.

Hans Landa had spent half of the evening listening to Hellstrom's comments on the pianist's play - his technique, his interpretation, his choice of music … Landa had known that Hellstrom, like many sons of wealthy bourgeois families, had learnt to play the piano in his childhood, but he hadn't expected him to be still so well-versed and interested in the subject. More in joke Landa had suggested that Hellstrom should just play himself if he had so much to criticise about the pianist, and the major had agreed. Jokingly, Landa had thought.

But now, just as another officer left with his girl, and the quiet in the huge restaurant was about to become oppressing, Hellstrom suddenly seemed to remember his plans, got up from the table and walked over to the piano.

Long hands touched the instrument almost lovingly when he opened it. After he had sat down one booted foot caressed the right pedal, while his fingers slid over the keyboard, playing a few chords to get a feeling for the instrument.

The last remaining guests fell silent, stretching their necks to see what was happening, but for once Landa was oblivious to his surroundings. From where he was sitting he couldn't see Hellstrom's hands; most of his body was hidden by the piano, but Landa got a good look at Hellstrom's face, as calm and controlled as ever.

For a minute there was silence, hands simply resting on the keyboard, and there was something almost reverent about Hellstrom's expression, close to that of a worshipper in church.

The first notes were played in the finest, gentlest pianissimo, but the Bösendorfer carried them to the last corner of the quiet room. Landa's eyebrows rose in surprise - the Appassionata, Beethoven's 23rd piano sonata, one of the greatest and, as the name suggests, most passionate in the work of a composer known for his passion. Not the music he would have expected from Hellstrom.

The first bars were enough to make him realise that he had underestimated his young colleague, once again. He wasn't surprised by Hellstrom's flawless technique, by the effortless elegance of his trills - Hellstrom was a perfectionist in everything he did. But what did surprise him was the depth of emotion behind every note, the gentle care in every movement, precise, but never mechanical.

Landa had always preferred Mozart to Beethoven; he was more a man for light-hearted playfulness than for Beethoven's dark, sometimes over-emotional fire. But it would take a deaf man not to be drawn into this music, the quiet beginning followed by thunderous chords, the constant change in volume and tempo that was so typical for Beethoven, but which sounded different in every single one of his sonatas.

Landa's eyes closed soon enough and he let the music flow over him, imagining Hellstrom's fingers flying over the ivory. He knew enough about music to realise that Hellstrom had mastered a skill that many amateur pianists lacked - they tried to play _on_ the piano, while a good musician played _with_ it, talked with it, touched it like he would touch a lover, attentive to every answering sound, moved by the beauty he created and yet always in complete concentration.

The first movement ended in rapid sixteenth notes, which slowly died down, disappearing in the same whispered pianissimo of the beginning. Landa smiled in anticipation of the next movement, and when one of the other officers started to clap, Landa shot him such a threatening glare that the man turned pale and stopped immediately. Landa looked back to the piano, afraid that Hellstrom would be insulted by the interruption and stop.

Seconds passed in complete silence, drawing out into half a minute before the first chords of the second movement reached Landa's ears. Landa had heard so many boring renditions of this movement that looked so easy, so simple that it took not technique, but feeling to master it.

And as surprised as Landa had been to hear so much passion in Hellstrom's earlier play, he was even more astonished to hear the light, thoughtful gentleness he put into the second movement, never rushing, taking his time for every note, savouring each chord like a romantic poet would savour his tears. Each repetition was a joy to hear, graced with the tiniest variations that Landa could hardly pinpoint, and yet he simply felt that they were there.

No pause between the second and the third movement, the Andante giving way almost seamlessly to the beginning of the Allegro, which was still deceptively calm, gradually building up to the infernal finale, again and again interrupted by moments of quiet. Landa's eyes had opened for a split second to look into Hellstrom's face, still concentrated, but by now twisted in something that almost looked like pain, no trace of the relaxation one saw on the faces of some pianists, but rather the tenseness of someone who put his whole soul into every single note.

Landa realised that, for once, what he heard would tell him so much more than what he saw, and his eyes fell shut again. If there was but half as much feeling in Hellstrom's heart as in his music - and there had to be - he was indeed nothing like Landa had imagined. And it did not take light, loving feelings to play Beethoven like this, but anger, desperation, pain, a constant yearning for the unreachable.

Landa's hands, already tense the whole time, grabbed the edge of the table almost convulsively when the tempo picked up. He had once heard a pianist say that the finale of the Appassionata had to sound like the pianist had lost control over his own play - not over the precise notes, of course, but over the feelings he conveyed.

Hellstrom's rendition was not the most perfect he had ever heard, the technical difficulties being a challenge even for a skilled amateur, but the strength behind it was a joy to hear. The final fortissimo, a last smashing thunder before the room fell back into a silence that was almost eerie now.

Hellstrom's hands slowly left the keyboard, shivering with tenseness. One of the officers, after a quick glance at Landa, started to applaud, and soon the others and the waiters joined in. The sound seemed to yank Hellstrom out of his dream-like state, and his eyes were wide when they met Landa's again. Landa could see a sheen of sweat on the pale forehead, feverish almost, while usually hard eyes were alive with fire. One hand rose, fingers running through somehow slightly dishevelled hair.

The clapping hardly reached Landa's ears, as if a layer of wadding separated him from the rest of the world. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he was sure he could hear Hellstrom's slightly accelerated breathing. The younger man looked dishevelled, sweaty, passionate. The expression on his face resembled the one Landa had fantasised about for weeks. He chided himself for the blunt, vulgar thought, but Hellstrom looked simply well fucked.

His musings were interrupted when Hellstrom stood up. The clicking of his boot heels in the gradually abating applause brought Landa back to reality. He looked up at Hellstrom when the major reached him, forcing a smile on his face. The compliments he had wanted to pay him, though, stuck in his throat when Hellstrom patted him on the shoulder, a short touch before his hands went for his cigarettes.

"Shall we leave?" he asked before Landa could say a single word. Landa easily picked up that Hellstrom's voice sounded a bit deeper, richer than usual. It was as if his ears had been sensitised by the music the way his skin would be by a spanking. Preferably a spanking delivered by these long fingers.

Their eyes met again, and Landa swallowed hard when he saw the knowing look in Hellstrom's eyes. He tried to reassure himself - pretending to know what other people were thinking was a necessary bluff in Hellstrom's line of work; there was no way that Hellstrom knew about Landa's thoughts.

Hellstrom only chuckled a little, a sound that had always excited Landa a little bit too much for his own good. The chuckle turned into a mute grin when he lit a cigarette, and even the clicking of the lighter made Landa shiver, simply because it was a sound he immediately associated with Hellstrom.

Landa nodded in a belated reply to his colleague's question. He rose slowly, glimpsing once more at the Bösendorfer. He knew it was pathetic, but he felt a wave of envy towards something that had been worshiped and caressed by Hellstrom's hands for half an hour. It was more than he could ever hope for.


	3. Part three: Smell

**Part three: Smell  
**

Hans Landa was feeling distracted.

He wasn't distracted by their beautiful surroundings, by the green meadows of France, by the perfect spring weather - it was still cold, but sunny, and the air was already filled with springtime scents, announcing the warmth of summer. Nor did he pay much attention to the noise in the barn behind them, where a handful of SS-men were rounding up the small resistance group they had finally discovered after a weeklong search.

His eyes were fixed on the silhouette of a man running away from them, one of the resistance fighters, who had escaped the barn. From the corner of his eyes he could see the tall, dark figure of Dieter Hellstrom, standing next to him and slowly drawing his gun.

The major walked around Landa, probably to get a better shot at the man. The spring breeze suddenly carried his scent to Landa, and the arousal he had been fighting down ever since Hellstrom had shown up in a new leather trench coat this morning hit him with full force when all other smells were wiped out by the scent of new leather.

It covered even the perpetual smell of smoke that clung to every piece of clothing Hellstrom wore for more than an hour. Landa would never have thought that the smell of leather could affect him so much - he smelt it on his own coat every day. But now the familiar smell was tied to the picture of Hellstrom wearing such a coat, which made his slender figure more imposing, matching the grim expression on the otherwise boyish face.

The scent also evoked the taste of leather on his tongue. Landa wanted to lean forward and lick the coat, working his way downwards from the collar, go to his knees, and, while he was at it, bestow the same reverent kisses on Hellstrom's boots.

The fantasy was disrupted by a loud bang, which made his ears ring painfully. He saw the running man drop to the ground, killed by a precise shot in the head. Landa turned his head to look at Hellstrom, at his fingers, covered in sleek black leather, curling around the gun with the same sensuality he touched his cigarettes with.

The smell of cordite filled the air, so strong at first that it covered the leather. It evoked countless memories to a man who had fought in World War I, who prided himself on being a rather good shot himself, who had shot more than a few men since he had joined the SS.

The scents mingled soon, cordite and leather forming an intoxicating mixture that made all his memories fade away, replaced by present fantasies. Hellstrom turned to look at him, a smug smile on his face. Satisfaction with a job well done, Landa thought. Hoped.

The gun disappeared somewhere under the leather coat, and Landa thought that Hellstrom rather unnecessarily straightened his uniform with his gloved fingers. As if he knew that Landa desperately wanted to kiss them, to feel them in his hair while burying his face against the endless leather of the coat.

Landa had seen Hellstrom kill men before, and it had never seemed to give him the intense amusement and pleasure he showed now. The major usually was a cold professional, and right now he was definitely having too much fun.

Hellstrom slowly lifted a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that Landa had never seen him make before, accompanied by a sly smile.

A shout came from the barn behind them, but Landa's ears were still ringing, and he didn't quite hear what the sergeant said. Hellstrom seemed to have less trouble, for he just nodded at Landa before he turned and walked back to the barn, coat swaying behind him in the breeze.

Landa looked back at the corpse, and he noticed only now that Hellstrom could have shot the man just as well from where he had been standing before; probably it would even have been easier. He felt himself grow pale when he realised that there was only one possible reason for Hellstrom to go to Landa's other side - he had noticed the nervous quivering of Landa's nostrils, his deep breaths, the arousal Landa had thought well hidden.

He had tried to convince himself that it was impossible, but it seemed more and more likely that Hellstrom knew exactly what Landa wanted. And if the Gestapo officer did know, then Landa, higher-ranking or not, was in deep trouble.


	4. Part four: Taste

**Part four: Taste  
**

They were standing in front of the _Opéra Garnier_ in Paris, having fled the foyer where they could hardly make two steps without having to shake hands with colleagues, party functionaries, and other acquaintances. It was the night of a premiere, and the noise on the street seemed almost peaceful compared to the bustling foyer.

Hellstrom was leaning against one of the pillars of the opera house, shivering a little. He was only wearing his dress uniform, and the spring air was still rather cold. Landa didn't mind, but it didn't surprise him that somebody as thin as Hellstrom couldn't stand the cold.

Landa was chattering about the first act of the opera, about the lead soprano whom he _knew_ quite well, trying to think of anything but Hellstrom in this bloody elegant dress uniform, maybe even trying to convince him that a ladies' man like him couldn't possibly desire his own colleague.

Hellstrom nodded or objected occasionally, but he didn't seem very interested. He didn't particularly like operas and had only agreed to come because his superior had practically ordered him to.

While Landa kept talking Hellstrom's fingers went for his cigarettes, surprisingly nimble in his white gloves, offering one to Landa. The colonel realised that he had left his own cigarettes in his coat and gladly accepted, trying not to stare at Hellstrom's hands when he lit first Landa's cigarette, then his own.

Landa took a deep drag. Usually he only smoked when he had the time to enjoy his cigarettes, but right now he did it in the hope that it would ease his nervousness. He almost coughed - it had been weeks since he had last accepted a cigarette from Hellstrom, and he remembered now why. They were stronger and more bitter than any other brand Landa had ever tasted. But he overcame his usual revulsion and inhaled again, more calmly this time.

His eyes met Hellstrom's before they unconsciously looked down at the thin lips, closed tenderly around his cigarette, sucking on it almost devotedly. White-gloved fingers took the cigarette out of his mouth, and Hellstrom quickly licked his lips before the next drag.

Taking another drag on his cigarette Landa realised that Hellstrom had to taste just like this. His mouth was certainly filled with the sharp taste of these cigarettes. He imagined kissing Hellstrom in between two puffs, breathing the bitter smoke into Landa's mouth when their lips met.

Landa's hand clenched, almost crushing the cigarette. He felt bare, naked, vulnerable under Hellstrom's gaze, knowing and cold, but at the same time sensual, filled with the almost sexual pleasure smoking seemed to give him.

He was sure that no cigarette had ever been smoked so slowly before. A small eternity seemed to pass in which they were just standing there, alone, facing each other, exhaling small clouds of smoke into the night. For the first time since they had met Landa finished his cigarette before Hellstrom.

Waiting for Hellstrom to smoke up he felt like a schoolboy waiting for his teacher to deal out the punishment for his misbehaviour. He shivered in anticipation when the stub of Hellstrom's cigarette was flipped to the ground and then crushed by a boot heel.

Once more Hellstrom's tongue darted out, tasting his own lips, and Landa's lips parted in response, silently begging for the same honour. Hellstrom stepped closer to him, shamelessly invading Landa's personal space.

"You must wonder whether reality lives up to your imagination," Hellstrom said suddenly, his voice a low whisper. Landa's eyes widened in shock, panic even. Before he could protest Hellstrom's lips were on his, and he surrendered to him as willingly and completely as Austria had surrendered to Germany.

It was hot, and bitter, and sharp. The taste of too many cigarettes mixed with the champagne Hellstrom had sipped in the foyer, and there was even a lingering taste of coffee, or maybe Landa only imagined it because he knew that Hellstrom lived on coffee. Black, bitter coffee.

He didn't even taste half as sweet as the many women Landa had kissed, but this short kiss set him on fire like a young boy who had never been kissed before.

It was over too quickly. Hellstrom drew back before Landa could even return the kiss, either because he feared discovery or because he wanted to tease him. Knowing him, it was probably both.

Landa's heart was racing, and he could hardly breathe. He didn't even hear what Hellstrom said, probably an empty, polite phrase about rejoining their colleagues in the foyer; he hardly noticed when the major straightened up in a mock gesture of respect before he returned inside.

Left alone in the cold spring air, Landa touched his quivering lips, filled with disbelief and astonishment. The taste of bitter cigarettes, mixed with something more pleasant, sweeter, promising, lingered on his lips for the rest of the evening.


	5. Part five: Touch

**Part five: Touch**

As Landa caught himself dozing off for the second time in the evening, he decided to call it a day and closed the file on his desk. It was so late that his office was probably the last one in the SS-headquarters in Paris to be still illuminated. He and Hellstrom had brooded over a particularly complicated case for hours, without reaching any conclusions.

He looked over to his colleague, who was sitting on the second chair in the office, his usually straight posture slumped. Landa noticed only now that Hellstrom's eyes were closed, his hands resting loosely on the documents on his lap.

Landa frowned a little, almost worried for a moment, before he saw how relaxed Hellstrom looked, his breathing slow and regular. At some point since they had last talked he must have fallen asleep. It wasn't surprising, considering that Hellstrom was a very early riser.

As soon as Landa had realised that there was nothing to worry about, a more pleasant thought occurred to him - if Hellstrom was sleeping, he could watch him without being noticed. Ever since their kiss a week ago Landa had been on edge, unsure what Hellstrom would make of his knowledge and new power over Landa. The boy was such a tease, giving Landa superior looks whenever he was smoking, constantly reminding him that he knew about his desires and had strictly no intention of doing anything about them. Yet Landa wasn't about to miss such a rare opportunity to watch him at leisure and without much risk.

He slowly rose from his chair and walked through the room, sneaking on tiptoes to keep his boot heels from waking his sleeping colleague. He smiled when he saw Hellstrom up close - thin lips slightly parted, eyelids fluttering occasionally, he had to be dreaming. It didn't seem to be an unpleasant dream, though, not when he was breathing so calmly, and Landa wondered what a man like him dreamt of.

He gently took the documents from Hellstrom's limp fingers and put them away, resisting the urge to touch his hands. His attraction was almost painful at moments like these, when the object of his deepest desire seemed so close and yet unattainable. He felt like Tantalus, dying of thirst, but unable to reach to cool water at his feet.

But he had tasted it for a moment, hadn't he? He had been granted this one blissful moment, only to have it taken away from him again. Landa shivered when he remembered their quick kiss, and he forced himself not to look at Hellstrom's lips.

His gaze roamed over Hellstrom's clean-shaven jaw, then up to his hair, slicked back with this awful pomade. It always made Landa wonder if Hellstrom was trying to hide his boyish looks on purpose, afraid that he wouldn't be taken seriously.

The pomade didn't reach Hellstrom's neck, though, and the hair there was surprisingly fair. It looked as soft as a child's, and before Landa could rein himself in his fingers were already brushing Hellstrom's skin. He knew he was being reckless, but what did it matter now? Hellstrom wouldn't have kissed him unless he had been absolutely sure. Even if Hellstrom woke up, this wouldn't tell him any more than he already knew.

Landa's fingertips were burning under the careful touch, barely daring to caress the fuzz on this pale, slender neck. Landa had always thought necks to be particularly erotic - fragile, graceful, soft. Touching someone's neck felt almost as intimate to him as kissing them.

When Hellstrom didn't wake up, didn't even stir in his sleep, Landa became a bit more daring. His fingertips drew small circles on the base of Hellstrom's head, combing through the short, silky strands. He wondered what Hellstrom looked like without the pomade, what it would feel like to run his hands through his hair when it was all soft and clean.

Hellstrom had opened the upper button of his shirt and loosened his tie earlier that evening, and Landa's hand slid down carefully, slipping under the shirt to touch his upper back, feeling the pointy shoulder blades. Hellstrom was apparently even thinner than Landa had thought, and it aroused him all the more that someone this fragile could still hold so much power over him.

When his hand slid up again, this time to the side of his neck, Hellstrom's eyes suddenly snapped open and met Landa's with the triumphant expression of a hunter who had lain in wait for hours and finally caught his prey.

Hellstrom's hand moved as quickly as a snake, but to Landa the seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. Long fingers tightened around his wrist and twisted it slightly, but even the pain was a welcome reminder of his helplessness. It was a relief, losing control over the situation, or else he would have had to stop this. And that would have been the last thing he _wanted_ right now. It was irrelevant that he could easily overpower Hellstrom - his mind had already surrendered to him long ago.

Neither of them said a word when Hellstrom lifted his free hand to Landa's face, gently caressing his cheek. His fingers felt as soft as Landa had imagined, deceivingly fragile and yet uncompromisingly strong. Manicured fingernails scratched over Landa's throat when the hand slid down, grabbing his shoulder and slowly pushing him down.

Despite Hellstrom's strength there was no violence in his gesture. He didn't need to force Landa to his knees, he simply suggested what he wanted, certain that he would be obeyed. A good officer never had to raise his voice. Landa's body quivered in tension when he sank to the floor, his eyes as fixed on Hellstrom's as the prisoner's had been in the interrogation room. He knew that he was just as much in Hellstrom's hands as this man had been, with the difference that the thought aroused him beyond words.

His knees protested when they met the hard wooden floorboards, but the discomfort was a price he was more than willing to pay to see the approving smirk on Hellstrom's face. The major finally let go of his hand and started to caress Landa's face, endless long fingers flitting over the stubble on his chin, his cheeks. Landa's eyes closed obediently when Hellstrom's fingertips touched his eyelids, he opened his mouth willingly when they slid between his lips. He kissed his hands greedily, whimpering when the fingers were withdrawn from his mouth and combed through his hair.

Desperate to touch him Landa bent forward to kiss Hellstrom's knee, then further down to the bootleg. The leather was smooth under his lips and his tongue, the taste was as bitter as Hellstrom's lips had been.

Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision, and he shivered in the ecstasy of an atheist who had been allowed to witness the divine. The hands in his hair, gentle until now, tightened painfully and yanked his head up, accompanied by a playfully disapproving look. One booted foot found its way to Landa's thigh, caressing him at first before it stopped, the heel pressed firmly into Landa's leg, the tip barely brushing his groin.

Landa felt almost hypnotised when one hand left his hair to unbutton Hellstrom's trousers. He licked his lips in anticipation, and a grateful moan escaped him when fingernails dug into his neck and pulled him close.

Looking up at Hellstrom, Landa saw his eyes flutter closed, the mask of control finally broken by pleasure. He heard the strangled noise of a suppressed moan. He smelt his arousal, tasted it on his tongue, felt it in every tightening of Hellstrom's fingers in his hair, in the increasing pressure of the boot on his leg. He moaned when Hellstrom's foot moved forward a little, starting to rub his groin through the uniform trousers.

Pleasure blurred Landa's awareness, and the next thing he could remember was being slumped on the floor before Hellstrom, his head still resting in the major's lap, his face nuzzling his groin, the rough fabric of black uniform trousers scratching his cheek, while an almost tender hand stroked his hair. Smoke filled his nostrils, and he lifted his head to see Hellstrom sucking on his cigarette, more relaxed than he had ever seen him before.

His head sank back on Hellstrom's lap, and he felt oddly at peace. He was still almost painfully hard, and he didn't expect Hellstrom to care, but he had already received so much more than he had ever hoped for. The very thought of touching himself while he still had Hellstrom's taste on his lips was enough to make him moan; he was so grateful for what he had been given that he couldn't even feel pathetic for contenting himself with so little.

It was quiet except for the regular sound of Hellstrom's inhaling and releasing of smoke. Long fingers caressed Landa's hair like they would caress a pet, and the dismissive tenderness of the touch made Landa sigh in pleasure.

He only wished that Hellstrom would allow him to stay at his feet a bit longer, and he tensed up in apprehension when Hellstrom shifted on his chair. His hand went from Landa's hair to his chin, lifting it, and a slender thumb wiped the moisture off Landa's bottom lip.

"I will fuck you when we get home," Hellstrom said calmly, his voice rough and smoky. The major took another drag on his cigarette, and his eyes were filled with contempt when he looked down into Landa's widened eyes. His foot, still covered in sleek leather, gently nudged Landa's groin again, and a sneer spread out on his face. His voice dripped with sarcasm when he added, "Unless you mind, _Standartenführer_."

Landa stared at him in disbelief for a moment before he nodded and reached for Hellstrom's hand. The major graciously let his hand rest in Landa's, allowed him to rub his face against it, to cover it in reverent kisses, sucking on each knuckle, each joint, laving the warm skin with his tongue. Why would anyone want to worship an idol when the divine could be found in a man? Why kiss a cross when he could kiss these hands?

"Please …"

The word was only breathed against Hellstrom's hand in between two kisses. His lips didn't even leave Hellstrom's skin when he looked up pleadingly and saw the smug, triumphant smile on Hellstrom's face.

"_Wunderbar."_


End file.
